


and everything else

by AShortWalkToDelinquency



Series: mpreg rewrites - season 1 [3]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s01e20 Like Father ..., Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24962956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AShortWalkToDelinquency/pseuds/AShortWalkToDelinquency
Summary: "Malcolm, I'm so sorry," Jessica whispers, the genuine sorrow in her words biting through the speaker."It's not your fault, Mother," his mouth moves on auto pilot, and, though he means it, his thoughts are a million miles away. He gets lost in the darkest corners of his mind, imagining how Gil would have felt, scared and alone, as he was bleeding out on the floor of Endicott's manor. How terrified he must have been as he was dumped into the trunk of a car, knowing he was going to be disposed of like so many others who had ended up on the wrong side of Nicholas Endicott. How heartbreaking it must have been to think that he'd never get the chance to meet his daughter.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Series: mpreg rewrites - season 1 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1799755
Comments: 14
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> None of the works in this series are related to one another, but they will all feature Malcolm in various stages of being pregnant.
> 
> -
> 
> Thanks to the Goblins for encouraging this series (and encouraging me)

The call comes in when he's still about a half hour out of the city. 

Jessica is nearly hysterical and it takes more than a few minutes for Malcolm to work out what she's saying. When he does, a cold fear grips his heart, squeezing until he can't breathe, can't think, can't hear his mother's hitched breathing and broken words.

The phone drops from his ear onto the seat beside him as his muscles go limp, and suddenly it feels like he's stepped out of his body, floating somewhere off above himself as his heart is clawed from his chest.

He stares down at the phone, his muddled mind trying to connect the tinny noises coming from the speaker with the information he knows he needs. It takes him three tries to pick the phone up and press it back to his ear.

"...st never believed. But he did. Oh, M-Malcolm, he wouldn't have been there if...I just thought…" Jessica's fractured words come out between sobs, and part of him wants nothing more than to console his mother and tell her that it's not her fault, but it takes everything in his power just to make his mouth form the words he needs the answer to more than anything. 

"Is," Malcolm's mouth is arid as he tries to speak, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat before he can manage to get the words out, "Is he dead?"

The air is trapped in his chest as he waits for Jessica's answer.

"He's in s-surgery," Jessica stumbles over the words and he can picture her so clearly, pacing the waiting room at the hospital in her designer dress and four inch heels, one perfectly manicured hand holding her head as she tries to process the events of the evening.

From what he's able to piece together, Jessica's dinner with Nicolas somehow ended with Gil getting stabbed and tossed into the trunk of a car, something to do with a car accident that he can't quite make heads or tails of, and a harried drive to the hospital. Part of Malcolm is screaming for vengeance and vows to hunt down Endicott and rip him apart, limb from limb. But a far larger part of him doesn't care about anything at all, besides getting to the hospital to see his husband.

"Malcolm, I'm so sorry," Jessica whispers, the genuine sorrow in her words biting through the speaker. 

"It's not your fault, Mother," his mouth moves on auto pilot, and, though he means it, his thoughts are a million miles away. He gets lost in the darkest corners of his mind, imagining how Gil would have felt, scared and alone, as he was bleeding out on the floor of Endicott's manor. How terrified he must have been as he was dumped into the trunk of a car, knowing he was going to be disposed of like so many others who had ended up on the wrong side of Nicholas Endicott. How heartbreaking it must have been to think that he'd never get the chance to meet his daughter.

Malcolm's breath leaves him in a stuttering exhale at the images that flood his mind, and the cab driver glances back in concern, asking, "Hey buddy, you okay?" It's possible that he's more concerned about the upholstery of his cab if his _very_ pregnant passenger happens to go into labour, but he looks genuinely concerned for Malcolm's wellbeing, so Malcolm sucks in a steadying breath and tries to offer a reassuring smile. Clearly it fails, as the man's frown falls even deeper.

He drops the pretence and just tells the driver which hospital to take him to. It doesn't seem to ease the cabbie's mind at all, but he turns back to the road, seemingly content with casting weary glances at Malcolm in the rearview mirror for the rest of the ride.

Malcolm, meanwhile, turns his attention back to Jessica, absently running his hand over his swollen belly where his daughter is sensing his distress and making good use of her elbows and feet to show him just how much she dislikes it.

He blows out a slow breath, more for the sake of the baby than himself, then says, "I'm on my way. Call me if —" but he can't even finish the thought. Can't imagine not waking up to Gil every morning and cuddling up with him every night. Can't even fathom the thought of raising this child without her Papa in their lives. "— if you hear anything about his condition," he whispers, swallowing around the bile rising at the back of his throat.

"Malcolm, are you alright? Are you safe?" Jessica asks, and for the first time since he answered his phone, she sounds like herself. Like the protective grandmother that she's already proven herself to be. 

"We're safe," he looks down and places his hand where he can feel the baby's spine pressing up against his body, letting the touch soothe them both. "I have to go, mom. I'll be there soon."

Though he wants to stay on the phone with her until he gets there — to be the first to hear any information that the doctors may provide — he knows that stress is the last thing their baby needs, and he's already concerned about the dull cramping that's making itself known low in his belly. The best thing he can do for all of them is to use the remainder of the ride to center himself.

Letting his eyes slip closed, he focuses on his breathing, employing the same techniques he uses while practicing yoga. After years of daily yoga routines, it's basically muscle memory at this point, and it works to calm the baby almost immediately, even if his mind is still playing scenario after scenario of arriving at the hospital to find Gil dead.

By the time he opens his eyes again, they're back in New York City and not far from the hospital. Even this late at night, the city is bustling and alive, carrying on like nothing has changed. Like the world isn't on the verge of falling apart. Though, Malcolm supposes, perhaps it's only _his_ world that's threatening to crumble. The lights and sounds of the city pass by in an indistinct blur outside his window, a kind of background noise that he's too distracted to really even notice. It's not until the looming towers of the hospital come into view that he really starts to take heed of his surroundings, a sense of foreboding sinking deep into his bones as they make their final approach. A wave of nausea washes over him and he tosses his head back against the seat, sucking in deep breaths as he tries to quell the urge to vomit. 

The cab driver is clearly relieved when he pulls up in front of the entrance and throws the can in park, turning in his seat towards Malcolm and eyeing him speculatively. "Hey, man. I hope everything turns out okay."

The profiler in him can tell the man actually means it, and Malcolm is thankful that he found a cab driver that was not only willing to drive him to Connecticut and back (after a hefty up-front downpayment), but also that he found someone who was willing to drive in silence, leaving him to his thoughts for most of the ride, and who actually seems to be concerned for him. 

"Thank you," he says earnestly, paying the man and leaving a generous tip for getting him back so quickly. Despite how distracted he'd been during the trip, he didn't fail to notice that the speed of the cab picked up substantially after his frantic phone call with Jessica.

It's awkward, getting out of the cab, but everything is these days. He's due in less than a week and his rounded stomach not only leaves him with a steady ache in his hips and lower back, but constantly throws off his center of gravity. Once he finally maneuvers himself up and out of the cab, he can't seem to bring himself to move any further. He just stands there, staring at the entrance, heedless of the swarms of people dodging around him until someone actually bumps his belly with a muttered "Move your ass, dude."

He wants to go in and find Gil. But right now, standing on the sidewalk firmly _outside_ the doors of the building that's holding Gil's life in its hands, Gil is still alive. As soon as he steps through those doors, that could change, and he's not ready for that.

"Sir, do you need some help," a soft voice asks from his left and he looks over to see a young woman in nursing scrubs looking at him with a kindness that he doesn't have the capacity to handle right now. A hot prickle hits his eyes just before they start to well up, and he wipes the tears away with an embarrassed swipe of his knuckles.

"It's not me," Malcolm tries to explain, but his voice cracks like glass as he adds, "it's my husband. He was stabbed."

Saying the words out loud somehow makes it so much more real, and there's nothing he can do to stop the flow of tears. Once again, he starts to feel like he's not quite inhabiting his body anymore, like he's watching everything play out from a distance. The woman slowly reaches a hand out and lays it on his arm, guiding him towards the entrance. "Okay, why don't we go find out where he's at?"

They're at the visitor's station before he really registers that he's moved. Suddenly it hits him like a freight train that, somewhere within these walls, Gil is fighting for his life. If he hasn't already lost the battle.

Malcolm barely manages to catch himself on the desk that's separating him and the young nurse from the worker sitting at the computer. He lets his forearms rest on the surface and drops his head atop his clasped hands, as a sob breaks from his lips. The weight is nearly too much for him to bear and his head begins to spin as the stresses of the last few hours begin to catch up with him.

He doesn't remember being lowered into a wheelchair, but when he finally opens his eyes, he's sitting in one, with the kind nurse kneeling in front of him, taking his pulse. Everything slowly stops spinning as he takes the deep breaths that the nurse — Danielle, according to the ID card she's wearing around her neck — keeps encouraging him to take.

"That's it, you're doing great," Danielle encourages, looking down at her watch while her fingers sit over his pulse point. She looks up with a small smile when he lifts his head, "Hi there, how are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," the words fall from his mouth without thought.

The way the corner of her mouth tilts up tells him that she's not quite buying it. But she just nods her head and asks, "What's your husband's name?"

"Lieutenant Gil Arroyo."

Her eyebrows lift at that, but she turns to the man at the desk and they have a quiet conversation, which Malcolm ignores in favour of continuing the deep breathing that's working to clear his head. They're given a floor number and before he can even ask, she's pushing him towards the elevators. She waits until they're in the elevator to ask, "I'm Danielle, by the way. What's your name?"

"Malcolm," he says, brushing a thumb over the platinum wedding band on his ring finger, thinking back to the day that Gil first slid it on. "Malcolm Bright-Arroyo."

"Well, Malcolm, I understand that having a loved one in the hospital is very stressful, but I'd bet that your husband would be pretty upset to wake up from surgery to find you in the bed beside his," she says, and he almost even cracks a smile, thinking just how exasperated Gil would be if that were to happen.

It's the first time he's really considered the fact that Gil might be okay. Might _actually_ wake up. That tight-fisted grip of fear that's been crushing his heart since he got the news, loosens just a little at the thought. 

"You have no idea," Malcolm responds dryly. "I'll try to stay calm and keep myself from getting admitted."

"Excellent," Danielle smiles as the doors open and she pushes him through, leading him unwaveringly down hall after hall. "Although it might not be a bad idea to get yourself looked over, just to make sure everything is alright with the baby."

"I will," he promises, though the way the baby is currently kickboxing his bladder tells him that she's doing just fine. "But the best thing for both of us right now is knowing that Gil is safe."

"Well, the waiting area is just up ahead," she informs him, "he's still in surgery, so unfortunately, you're going to have to hang tight. But if you feel like you or the baby are in any distress, you just call out for a nurse, alright?"

"I will," he says over his shoulder, but he drops his feet to the floor to stop her before she can go any farther. "My mother is going to be waiting and if I show up in a wheelchair things will be...trying." He uses the arm rests to heave himself out of the chair and up to his feet, taking a second to get his bearings and steady himself before he turns to face the nurse. "Thank you, Danielle."

"Take care, Malcolm. My prayers are with you and your husband," she smiles warmly before turning around and heading back the way she came, taking the wheelchair with her and leaving him alone in the stark hallway.

Malcolm takes a steadying breath and then turns the corner, immediately catching sight of Jessica at the end of the hall, pacing furiously and shrouded in a doubled-over hospital blanket. He's halfway there when she catches sight of him and her shoulders sag as she whispers, "Oh, Malcolm."

Her heels click loudly on the lino floors as she makes her way over and wraps him up in her arms as best she can with the bulge of his stomach between them.

He lets her hold him, takes comfort from her warmth and love, and it's not until her heat is bleeding into him that he realizes just how cold he is. The faint tremble that's running through his body has Jessica fussing, "Baby, you're shivering," as she tries to lead him to the chairs that line the wall.

"Have you heard anything?" he asks, refusing to budge from where he's standing until he knows. As her hands slide down his arms and come to a stop at his balled up fists, he realizes that he's clenching them tightly enough that his fingernails are digging painfully into his palms. At her light touch, he relaxes his muscles and lets her take hold, pulling their joined hands between them and giving them a gentle squeeze.

"No word yet," she says, tilting her head to meet his downcast eyes. Releasing one of his hands to cup his cheek, she angles his face up to look him in the eye, stating firmly, "That man has more to fight for than anyone I know. He will _not_ leave you alone, Malcolm. He's far to valiant for that." After a short pause and the smallest of shrugs, she adds, "Or stubborn."

Malcolm looses a watery laugh, knowing that both descriptors are equally fitting. 

Jessica has obviously used the time it took for Malcolm to get to the hospital to compose herself, slipping behind her customary mask of cool disregard. He knows it's all for show, that she's far more affected by this than she's letting on, but, right now, he's thankful for her strength when he's feeling nothing but vulnerable.

He allows himself to be led to the chairs and doesn't even complain as she adjusts the blanket so that it's draped over both of their shoulders. Licking his lips and running clammy hands over his thighs, he buys himself a moment before he turns to Jessica and says, "Mom, what the hell happened?" 

Jessica brings her hands to her lips like a prayer, taking a deep breath to prepare herself, but it's obvious she's expecting the question. He recognizes that she's ordering her thoughts and gives her the space she needs to get started.

Malcolm takes advantage of the time to steel himself, packing away the 'husband and father' and letting the 'former special agent' come to the forefront. He needs to keep a level head, to pick up every little detail that Jessica has to offer, if he's going to take down Nicholas Endicott.

Her recounting of the events takes longer than is strictly necessary, but Malcolm stops her repeatedly for clarification or to ask for more detail, and she needs to take a number of breaks when things get too emotional to continue.

He recognizes that he's focusing on the details of the case as a distraction from thinking about Gil, but if that's what it takes to get him through this interminable wait, then that's what he's going to do. He can't just sit back and do nothing, letting his vivid imagination get the better of him. Besides, Nicholas Endicott has already had a head-start in planning a cover-up; they can't afford to waste even a second in this investigation. 

As Jessica concludes her tale, Malcolm is overwhelmed with a renewed love and respect for the woman. She put her life on the line to rescue Gil, keeping a cool head in a dreadful situation to save the father of his child. 

With a lump in his throat, he twists his body towards Jessica and pulls her into a sturdy hug. "Thank you for saving him," he whispers against her neck. She returns the hug just as tightly, tears falling on his neck as the tension drains from her body. They stay like that, comforting and taking comfort in return, for several minutes, until Malcolm pulls away to get back to the task at hand.

He brushes away his tears as he asks, "Who have you told about this?" He needs to sort out who he needs to contact regarding Gil's condition and the Endicott case. He also needs to know who has enough damning information against Nicholas for the man to consider them a threat.

"I called that lovely detective friend of yours. I also called our fleet of lawyers — just to be safe, of course — and your sister," Jessica says, surreptitiously wiping the tears from her cheeks. "Ainsley said she'll be here soon and to give you her love."

Malcolm smiles at that. Growing up, Ainsley didn't spend very much time with Gil and Jackie — she'd been so young when everything happened that she didn't require the escape from home that Malcolm had — so she never formed a close relationship with Gil. But ever since Malcolm told her that he'd fallen in love with the man, Ainsley went out of her way to get to know Gil better. To everyone's surprise, including their own, Gil and Ainsley became fast friends. 

Ainsley was the first to accept the unexpected change from friends to lovers between Malcolm and Gil, and she helped smooth Jessica into accepting it as well, which was a feat in itself.

Looking at Jessica now, tear-streaked and wrapped in a hospital blanket, Malcolm has no doubt how much she cares for Gil and has accepted him as part of the family. That doesn't mean it was smooth sailing all along, though. Jessica was downright frigid with Gil when Malcolm first announced their relationship, and it took a great deal of time and effort from both Malcolm and Gil (with some cunning aid from Ainsley) for Jessica to begin accepting them as a couple.

Once Gil put a baby in Malcolm's belly, all bets were off, and Gil became Jessica's favourite person in the world with the simple words of, "You're gonna be a gramma, Jess."

Now, together in their fear and anger, Jessica and Malcolm settle back in their chairs, each lost in their own thoughts. 

Malcolm tries to focus on the case, on all the things he needs to do. He needs to find a way to clear his name without involving Sophie Sanders; that woman has been through enough in her life and he's not going to let her end up in prison. More importantly, he needs to bring Endicott down. Attempted murder of an NYPD Lieutenant should be enough to put the man away, but Nicholas has friends (and pawns) in high places, and Malcolm is worried that even those charges will slide right off of him. 

He's running through the case notes and timelines in his head when Dani and JT round the corner at the end of the hall and head directly for him. He wriggles forward in his chair, making to push himself up, but JT halts him with a gentle hand on the shoulder as he stops in front of him.

"You good, man?" JT asks, casting a worried look at Bright's stomach before meeting his eye.

Bright settles back in the chair and attempts a smile, though he's sure it comes across more exhausted and worried than he intends. "I'll be better once I know Gil is alright."

"Still no word?" Dani asks, adding a polite, "Hello, Mrs. Whitly."

"Hello, Detectives, it's nice to see you again," Jessica says, ever observing social niceties. "Unfortunately, there's been no updates on his condition yet."

"What are we doing about Endicott?" Malcolm couldn't care less about niceties at the moment, he just needs answers. Without even realizing it, his hands wrap tightly around the arms of his chair, knuckles blanching with the grip, and it's not until Jessica runs a soothing hand over his, that he loosens his hold. 

Though he's honestly pleased to see JT and Dani, the fact that they're at the hospital means there's nothing they can be doing to actively pursue Endicott, which gives Nicholas even more time to dispose of the evidence and fashion a bulletproof alibi.

"Waiting on a warrant," JT says, anger flashing hot over his face, "Then we'll bring that fucker down once and for all." JT makes sure to catch Malcolm's eye, offering a small nod as he speaks. It's a promise that they won't stop until they get Endicott, and Malcolm knows that it's not a promise to take lightly.

Malcolm's well aware that JT's brothers-in-arms protectiveness of his teammates is a relic from his time in the service, and understands, implicitly, that he'll do anything to keep Gil and Dani safe. It's one of the many things that Malcolm has respected about the man from the very beginning, but he is especially thankful for that loyalty now, when Gil is fighting for his life and his would-be killer is still at large. 

A weighted moment passes, unremarked by the women beside them, before Malcolm nods his thanks, a silent understanding passing between the two men. With a question from Jessica about what happens next, the conversation carries on, all four of them eager to get things moving.

It takes almost no time to exchange all the information they have — which is, unfortunately, very little — and then they're left with nothing to do but settle into a tense holding pattern as they wait for news on Gil. Malcolm stays seated, lost once again in the depths of his mind, while everyone else restlessly moves about the waiting area. He's vaguely aware of someone offering coffee, of Jessica resuming her pacing, of Dani and JT leaving at regular intervals to make or receive phone calls, but it's as if everything is speeding around him in a blur of motion, and he's rendered immobile by the crushing weight of _not knowing_.

He doesn't know if his baby will be born while he's in police custody, charged for a murder he didn't commit. He doesn't know if his husband is going to survive the night. He doesn't know if the man who destroyed so many lives is going to get away with tearing his entire world apart.

It's sending him spiraling into an anxiety attack — heart rate jacking up, breaths coming fast and shallow, tremor spreading through his body — and while he knows it's happening, he doesn't know how to stop it. His daughter starts to kick inside of him, sparking a twinge of pain that shakes him just enough to notice when Dani pushes off from where she's leaning against the wall, deceptively relaxed with one leg hitched up so that her foot is pressed flat against the wall, like she's casually passing the time. She lowers herself into the chair beside him and reaches out to take his shaking hand in hers, wrapping him in her warmth. With a small smile and a gentle squeeze, she lends him strength through her steady touch.

"Gil's gonna make it," she assures him, and, somehow, it doesn't just sound like a useless platitude coming from her. She says it with a conviction that helps Malcolm breathe a little easier, helps to knock his heart rate down a few beats. "And now you guys will have matching scars," she adds, lips twitching up with a repressed smile, and he can't help the startled laugh that bubbles up from his chest. It's obviously the reaction she was hoping for, and she huffs out a relieved breath and gives his hand another squeeze.

It's not long before her smile slowly fades and she pulls her lip between her teeth, chewing on it for a moment before she sighs, "Sorry for doubting you."

Malcolm can see that she's uneasy — about everything that's been said and done — but he's made his own share of mistakes throughout this whole ordeal, too. He knows that, when all is said and done, they're going to have a lot of baggage to unpack before they can get their friendship back on track. But now is not the time for that. He tries to lighten the mood with a deprecating, "I doubt myself all the time."

She doesn't quite bend to the levity, looking at him intently as she promises, "We're gonna get you out of this, Bright."

Her unwavering belief eases just a little of the weight that's been pressing down on him, but honestly, he doesn't have the wherewithal to even consider the wrongful allegations against him right now.

Thankfully, JT happens to march back from where he'd been taking a phone call. "Warrants came through for Endicott. We're gonna nail him, clear your name."

Malcolm's stomach drops as he watches Dani and JT walk away, battle-ready and prepared to fight the most appalling monster they've ever faced. The two detectives have become the closest thing to friends he has in his life, and, though he knows them to be well trained and capable, he worries for their safety, going after someone like Nicholas Endicott. If something happens to them…

He stops that thought before he can dwell on it further. No sense borrowing trouble when he already has more than enough to focus on. 

When Jessica offers to go get them some tea, he nods absently, thinking a hot cup of herbal tea actually sounds wonderful right about now. And since Jessica is aware that chamomile tea has a tendency to soothe the baby, Malcolm knows that she'll be returning with a hot cup for them. 

However, Jessica has only been gone a matter of seconds when Malcolm's phone buzzes, and all thoughts of a quiet cup of tea go out the window with three simple words.

Come home. NOW!

Ainsley knows that Gil is in surgery — she's _supposed_ to be on her way to the hospital — and that there is almost nothing that would pull Malcolm away. 

Almost.

Which means Nicholas Endicott is at the house. With Ainsley. Alone.

Malcolm's stomach drops at the thought, the little voice at the back of his head — a voice that sounds suspiciously like Martin — reminding him that people don't say 'no' to Endicott. He's left abruptly and desperately lightheaded as he realizes that Nicholas could have gone _anywhere_ , but he chose to go to the Whitly family home. Which means he either has a plan that includes one of them, or he's desperate. 

Malcolm's not sure which one is worse.

He leans forward in his chair, dropping his head to his chest as he waits for the panic to subside. He allows the dizziness to wash over him and fade away as he takes one deep breath after the next, the whole time contemplating his next move.

He considers calling JT and Dani, but only for a moment. Not only would he be endangering their lives by putting them directly in front of Endicott, but it would be introducing two wild cards into an already explosive situation, one he's going to have enough trouble controlling as it is. He decides quickly and decisively that this is something he's going to have to endure alone, in order to keep everyone as safe as possible.

Once the room has stopped tilting, he heaves himself to his feet and heads down the hall before he has a chance to second guess himself any further. Just before he turns the corner, though, he stops to look back at the empty chairs, where only moments ago, he was surrounded by the safety and comfort of his family and friends. Where he _should_ be sitting and waiting for news about his husband.

And Gil… well, Gil's going to be furious. 

Malcolm's about to break a promise that he knows is more important to Gil than any of the vows he made on their wedding day. He swore to Gil long ago — following Gil's appeal to be more careful with himself, since Malcolm was now carrying Gil's heart with him — that he would stop running headlong into danger. And, more than anyone, he knows _exactly_ how dangerous confronting Nicholas will be.

But it's his best chance to bring Endicott in. And that makes it his best chance to keep Gil alive.

Gil's testimony will be the most damning bit of evidence in this case, which means Nicholas's best shot of avoiding charges, even factoring in all of his money and influence, is to make sure Gil never gets a chance to testify. 

Endicott is certainly smart enough to recognize that.

Which means that Gil's best hope for survival is to end this all before it can go any further. Malcolm takes a steadying breath and makes his way to the elevators, texting JT as he walks to ask for a guard — someone they can trust — to be placed at Gil's door as soon as he's out of surgery. He doesn't delve into why he thinks it's necessary, knowing JT will understand his request. Though Malcolm is hopeful he can finish this before a guard becomes necessary, he's not willing to take chances with Gil's life on the line.

JT texts back almost immediately that an old army buddy is already on his way to stand guard, off the books, and Malcolm is once again thankful that Gil has JT in his corner, a loyal ally until the end. In the back of Malcolm's mind, he's trying to figure out some way he could possibly repay JT for this when everything is said and done, but he already knows that nothing he does can ever be enough. 

The knowledge that JT has sent someone that he obviously trusts to watch over Gil pulls some of the crushing weight off Malcolm's shoulders, and he breathes a little easier and stands a little taller by the time he's walking out the front doors of the hospital.

He's ready to end this, once and for all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some hints of non-con in here (and some threats of it as well), but nothing expressly happens. Just a warning in case that's an issue for anyone

Everything is deceptively calm as his cab pulls to the curb in front of his childhood home, the old-money neighbourhood resting quietly, blissfully unaware of the monster within the walls of the Milton family home. Malcolm spares a brief moment to wonder if this night, like that fateful evening all those years ago, will end with hoards of press outside their door, live streaming the arrest of the boogeyman that, unlike last time, no one even knows exists.

He pays the driver and steps out into the cool night, letting the brisk breeze fortify him for what's to come. One way or another, he plans to end things tonight. He's hoping to bring Nicholas in to be charged for the atrocities he's responsible for, but deep down Malcolm knows that, if Nicholas offers a deal that keeps his family safe, he'll agree to almost any terms the man sets. And in the deepest reaches of his soul, in the part of himself that he's been trying for 20 years to bury and deny, he's ready to acknowledge there's another way to end things that's far more permanent. 

With a silent apology to Gil, Malcolm pushes through the gate and takes the final steps to the front door, ignoring the dread that's pooling in his stomach as he opens the door and steps over the threshold. Sadly, it's not an usual feeling for him.

From the moment he was able to feel his daughter move inside of him, the foyer of his mother's house has made her squirm. When he told this to Gil, several months ago, his husband smiled and placed a warm hand on his belly, saying that she can sense his discomfort and is trying to make him feel better by letting him know he's not alone. If Gil's right, then she's certainly intent on making sure Malcolm knows he has company tonight. As soon as he steps into the foyer, as visions of Martin's arrest flood his memory, she starts twisting and kicking, setting off a dull ache low in his belly. 

"Shhh, sweet pea, it's okay," Malcolm whispers, planting his hand on his stomach where, from the feel of it, she's actively trying to kick her way through. "Daddy's gonna be just fine and we can get back to Papa soon." It seems to be reassurance enough and the rapid movements cease soon after, leaving behind only the ache in his abdomen.

It doesn't take long to find Endicott, sitting on the settee next to Ainsley, his relaxed posture doing little to hide the predatory gleam in his eyes. Malcolm can tell immediately that, despite the head wound that Jessica so graciously gifted him, he's enjoying himself. Enjoying the power he holds over them.

"Malcolm. Come in. Sit down." Nicholas says, as if he's the man of the house. Surely, he assumes he is. "Now that we're all here, our family meeting can begin."

Malcolm bites down on his anger, focusing instead on his sister. "Did he hurt you?"

But it's not Ainsley that answers him back, it's Endicott. "Not a hair on her head," he says, reaching over to brush her hair back over her shoulder with a sickening smirk on his face.

Malcolm doesn't need to be a profiler to see the fear and disgust on Ainsley's tear-stained face. But still, he automatically catalogues everything about her; the way her hair is slightly ruffled, the way her clothes are just a little out of place, the way she steels herself for his unwanted touch in a way that screams it's not the first time he's touched her tonight. 

Malcolm wants to vomit.

But Ainsley looks up at him, eyes wide and pleading, and gives the tiniest shake of her head. They've been communicating silently with shared looks and minute gestures their entire lives, a sibling bond that never really goes away. He _knows_ that she's asking him to leave it be. At least for now. And he's not willing to push her if she's not ready to deal with whatever _it_ is. Not while Nicolas is still sitting beside her, sliding his fingers along a lock of her hair.

"What the hell are you doing here," Malcolm bites out, voice trembling as he seeks to control his anger. He knows he needs to keep a cool head, but the rage inside of him is threatening to boil over, and the ache in his belly has suddenly become considerably more difficult to ignore.

"Sit, all will be explained over—" Nicholas looks down at Malcolm's stomach, lips quirking up in a mirthless smile as he cuts off his offer of a nightcap. "Well, I was going to offer you a drink, no doubt you could use one after the day you've had, but I suppose that's not in the cards."

Malcolm's hand unconsciously moves to his stomach, a protective gesture that Endicott merely quirks an eyebrow at before he turns his attention to the bar in the corner of the room, walking over without a care in the world.

Ainsley takes full advantage of Endicott's absence, rushing over to Malcolm's side. As scared as she is — and Malcolm can see that she's terrified — she still tries to hold it together, turning to where Nicolas is standing with his back to them, filling a tumbler of scotch. "Whatever you think you're doing here—" she starts, but the words crumble to ash as he turns to face her, eyes raking over her body. Malcolm feels the woosh of her breath as it vacates her lungs at the leer.

"It's okay, Ainsley," Malcolm says, trying to provide at least a modicum of comfort while still respecting her wishes. "He doesn't know how thoroughly screwed he is." Endicott's gaze shifts to Malcolm, just as he'd hoped, and Malcolm slowly walks away from Ainsley, making sure that Nicholas's attention is solely on him, ensuring his sister no longer needs to bear the weight of the man's scrutiny. "As we speak, Major Crimes is getting a warrant to search your house, your office, and the three secret offices you think we don't know about. So please, enjoy the scotch, it'll be your last.

Endicott saunters over to where Malcolm is standing, getting uncomfortably close as he takes a swig of his drink and shrugs "I'm afraid those warrants won't amount to much."

"You had Gil stabbed," rips painfully from Malcolm's throat. He wants to say more, but the words are locked inside of him as he's assaulted once again by visions of Gil bleeding out in front of Endicott, while the man just stares down at him with that sanctimonious expression that Malcolm is already starting to despise.

Nicholas's lips quirk up at the corners as he spouts what he'll undoubtedly tell the police. "You mean my assistant Aaron. One rotten apple in an otherwise clean organization, and he must've known that his misdeeds were going to catch up to him because he took his own life just a few hours ago." Nicholas offers a poor imitation of sorrow, not even bothering to put in the effort to make it sound believable. 

Malcolm knows that Endicott will appear every inch the grieved and shocked employer when it truly matters — in front of the police, and again when he inevitably gives a statement to the press. He'll harvest the sympathy of the public, the masses bewitched by his charm and charisma, as he expresses his sincere regret that one of his employees is responsible for the death of a celebrated NYPD Lieutenant.

It plays out so clearly in his head. Endicott giving a press conference, the Mayor by his side, buying the goodwill of the people with his words and buying the cooperation of the authorities with money and blackmail. And Malcolm suddenly realizes that Nicholas isn't there to make a deal, or to threaten them into cooperating. He's there to gloat.

He's already won. 

The panic that he's been trying so hard to tamp down hits him full force, knocking the air from his lungs and leaving him reeling. He reaches back blindly, thankful to find the sofa behind him as his legs buckle, sending him down hard onto the cushioned seat. His vision tunnels in and out as he begins to hyperventilate, the reality of the situation crashing into him without warning.

Malcolm had been foolish enough to think he could bring things to an end tonight, alone. He irrationally believed that he could take down the head of an empire with nothing more than his conviction and what would likely amount to circumstantial evidence, by the time Endicott got his hands on it. And now, his arrogance would be the downfall of everyone he's ever loved.

Over the rush of blood in his ears he hears Ainsley insist, "You can't just keep silencing people."

He doesn't even need to hear Nicholas's response to know that Ainsley is dead wrong.

"Oh, I think you'll find I can. Actually it's what I do best." Nicholas chuckles, clearly finding Ainsley's naivete amusing. Malcolm's still drifting in a fog of anxiety, a tremor racking his body, aware of the conversation between Nicholas and Ainsley only in the vaguest of terms, until the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as Endicott's attention shifts back to him. 

But it's not _just_ back to him, because it's not _just_ him anymore. His baby — whom, he realizes with a sinking feeling that leaves him nauseated and woozy, is going to be born with one of his fathers dead and the other serving a life sentence for first degree murder — is also garnering the attention of the man, as Nicholas eyes his stomach speculatively. Suddenly all of the panic that's been suffocating Malcolm is abruptly transformed into righteous indignation, and the sudden burst of adrenaline clears his mind enough to remind him of the bag he'd stuffed beneath the sofa earlier. The bag that contains a handgun that Malcolm honestly believed he would never have to use.

He questions that resolve as Nicholas continues speaking, goading him, "You know, you should really have that tremor checked out. Have you ever—"

"Shut up!" Malcolm screams, reaching beneath him to grab the gun and thrusting it out towards Endicott, "Stop. Just stop!" And God help him, the look of genuine fear that flashes across Endicott's face, even if it's just for a moment, sends a spark of satisfaction shooting down Malcolm's spine.

For 20 years, Malcolm has been trying to convince himself and everyone around him that he is not his father's son. But right now, the idea of ending Endicott's life is almost too tempting to pass up. He _wants_ to do it.

"You killed Eve," Malcolm hisses, thinking of the woman who had quickly become a stalwart friend and confidant, as they bonded over how the brutal crimes of The Surgeon ruined both of their lives. "Framed me for murdering her killer. You may—" Malcolm pauses to swallow the back the bile that begins to flood his mouth, "—you may have killed my husband, the father of my child. You deserve to die, Nicholas."

He wishes he would have pulled the trigger as soon as he'd aimed the gun. He could have done it then. But with the thought of Gil comes the reminder of what it means to be just and honourable. He thinks of how ethical his husband is, how he would _never_ murder someone in cold blood. 

The hesitation must show on his face, because Nicholas relaxes, taking a sip of his scotch as he steps closer to the gun until the barrel is only inches away from his body.

"You know, you really are your mother's son, Malcolm," Endicott sneers, eyes sweeping over Malcolm from head to toe, and, from the unimpressed look on his face, he's found wanting. "All smoke. No fire. She couldn't go all the way either." Nicholas takes another mouthful of scotch, letting the liquid sit on his tongue for a moment before he swallows it down appreciatively. "Which is a shame. She's brilliant in the sack." With a lecherous grin he leans in even further, the gun now pressed firmly to his sternum as he leans in to stage whisper, "I've only had a little taster of your sister. I can't wait to find out how much like your mother _she_ is."

Malcolm sees red, his resolve to be a better man crumbling in an instant. In the space of a heartbeat, he steels himself to fire, but Nicholas is faster, slamming his hand down on top of the gun just as Malcolm pulls the trigger. The bullet rips through the floor between Endicott's feet, splintering the hardwood as it breaks through the boards at a sharp angle.

Nicholas is remarkably quick. He takes advantage of Malcolm's surprise to grab hold of his forearm and hand and, with a slight rotation and a sudden jerk, snaps Malcolm's wrist. The crack of the bone breaking as it echoes through the room is somehow infinitely louder than the gun shot.

Malcolm screams and drops to his knees, gun skidding away, the piercing pain in his wrist resonating up his arm and through his body, only to set off a wave of cramps that ripples from the top of his belly all the way to the bottom. He hunches over, curling in on himself as he hugs his broken wrist to his body while wrapping his good arm around his stomach.

"Malcolm!" Ainsley screams, but it's taking all his concentration to breathe through the pain and he can't even look up to assure her that he's alright.

All he can manage is a series of rapid and shallow breaths blown through his nose, but the lack of air quickly combines with the intense pain to leave him dangerously close to blacking out. With a superhuman effort, he slows his respiration, sucking in sharp breaths through his nose and blowing out with a muted whimper on each exhale.

When he finally stabilizes himself enough to look up, it's to stare down the barrel of his own gun.

He chances a look at Ainsley, frozen in place at Endicott's blatant threat against his life. She's terrified for him and the baby — it's written clear as day in every pinched line on her face — but the way her eyes are darting around the room, he can tell she's already trying to work out what she can do to get the gun away from Nicholas. With a small smile that he's sure comes across as more of a grimace, he tries to communicate that she needs to stand down, that he's going to get them all out of there safely. 

Dropping the smile, he turns his attention back to Nicholas, who isn't even attempting to hide the pleasure that's coursing through him at having Malcolm and Ainsley entirely at his mercy. In order to provide less fuel to the man's sadistic fire, Malcolm resolves to show as little fear as he possibly can while he attempts to talk his way out of a situation that's spiralled desperately out of control.

He drops his face for just a moment, slamming his eyes shut and biting down hard on his lip, as another cramp tears through his stomach. He doesn't want Endicott to see the pain twisting his face, choosing instead to wait until the worst of it has passed before he slowly and carefully pushes himself to his feet. As hard as he tries, he can't stop the cry that escapes as his broken wrist is jostled, but he schools his face into complete neutrality as quickly as he can. 

"We'll find the evidence, the witnesses," Malcolm says breathily, ignoring the fact that he no longer believes it, denying Nicholas the satisfaction of knowing that he's losing hope, "and I will arrest you."

"No you won't. The whole system is mine," Nicholas scoffs, arrogance dripping off of him, "I own it. I can do anything I want."

To prove his point, Nicholas moves forward and presses the gun to Malcolm's forehead, the pressure shoving his head back ever so slightly and forcing him to adjust his stance in order to keep his balance. He hears Ainsley gasp, somewhere off to his left, but he refuses to break eye contact. To look away for even a second would be to admit defeat, and he's not willing to offer the man that victory.

When Nicholas slides the gun down the bridge of his nose to his mouth, the metal catching on his lower lip and tugging it down just a little, Malcolm inhales sharply. It's a power move, of course, meant to show Malcolm exactly who is in charge. And while it feels like his blood has turned to ice as the fear wends its way through his veins, he hides it behind a finely honed mask of indifference. 

"Open wide," Endicott's smirk falters when Malcolm raises an unimpressed eyebrow and drops his jaw, rolling his eyes as he waits for the barrel to press into his mouth. The gun rests heavy on his tongue, the oily tang making his stomach churn, forcing him to breathe slowly to keep from gagging. But his feigned nonchalance has the desired effect and Nicholas soon tires of the game, pulling the gun slowly from his mouth, dragging the cold metal along the length of his tongue before he finally pulls it all the way out.

The metal barely makes it past his teeth before there's a spark of fire in Endicott's eyes. "Don't worry, Malcolm," Nicholas patronizes, wiping the spit-slick barrel against his cheek to clean it off, and the sound of the metal rasping against his whispers sends a shiver down Malcolm's spine. "I'm not going to kill you. Would you like to know why?"

What Malcolm _would_ like to do is scream at him to fuck off and then somehow get his gun back. But with a broken wrist and laboured movements resulting from his bulkier form, he knows he doesn't stand a chance at disarming the man. He settles back on his heels, then, to wait for Nicholas to fill him in, knowing the man loves the sound of his own voice far too much to keep quiet for long.

"Here's what's going to happen, Malcolm. You're about to be indicted for first degree murder," Nicholas explains like he's talking to a child, confidently adding, "you'll be found guilty, by the way."

Malcolm doesn't doubt for a second that the man has the power to make sure that happens, and his heart painfully bypasses a beat or two before hammering in his chest.

"But here's the thing, Malcolm. With you in prison and Arroyo dead," Endicott makes a grand show of looking at his watch before shrugging, "well, he's still alive now, but give it…oh, about an hour?" Endicott's eyes land heavily on Malcolm as he watches for a reaction, and he huffs out a disappointed sigh when the only reaction he receives is a stuttered exhale before Malcolm can steady himself. "Someone is going to need to step up and raise that child. Who better than a philanthropist millionaire and patron of the arts?"

Malcolm's carefully crafted mask shatters at the thought, the horror of this man not only laying a hand on his child, but raising her however he sees fit — and the visions that flit through Malcolm's head of what that could entail are fueled by nearly ten years of working with the FBI to catch the most deranged and monstrous human beings that society has ever seen — leaves him sick to his stomach. Chest heaving, he folds himself nearly in half as he gasps for breath, his good arm propping himself up on one knee while his broken wrist hangs limp at his side. 

The urge to vomit has been clawing at him since Jessica first called him on his way back from Connecticut, but the thought of Nicholas touching his daughter is too much to bear and he retches on his mother's hand-woven Turkish area rug. With the overwhelming stress of the last 24 hours, he hasn't had much interest in eating, so there's blessedly little to bring up. It's mostly tea and stomach acid that spills onto the carpet, but as soon as his stomach muscles contract, another ripple of pain shoots through his belly, and this time his daughter starts protesting the sudden onslaught of spasms and hormones that have been flooding his system, hands and feet kicking out in all directions.

Nicholas talks over Malcolm's low groans and shuddering breaths as if they're carrying on a regular conversation. As if he hasn't just threatened everything that Malcolm holds dear.

"Oh, Malcolm. The things I could teach your little girl," Nicholas leans down next to Malcolm's ear and whispers, "She'll be calling _me_ Daddy in no time."

With a howl of pure rage Malcolm balls up his fist and shoves himself up, taking a swing at Endicott with every bit of strength he can possibly muster.

Nicholas is clearly expecting it and jerks himself back, Malcolm's fist glancing off the edge of his jaw with barely enough force to throw him off balance. Endicott strikes back quickly and brutally, backhanding Malcolm with the butt of the gun.

The impact sends Malcolm sprawling, just barely catching himself on one knee and his broken wrist, driving an ear-piercing scream from deep within his chest. As soon as the sound has ceased, Nicholas continues speaking.

"Don't worry though, Malcolm, I won't keep her _completely_ estranged from her family," Endicott says, stepping over to Bright and sliding a hand beneath his arm, hauling him back up to his feet with a quick jerk.

Malcolm's head swims at the abrupt movement, and he groans as his various injuries pulse and flare when he tries to pull away from Nicholas. He brings his good hand up to his face, hissing through his teeth at the sting along his cheekbone as his fingers encounter a deep gash. When he pulls his hand back, there's a slick of blood coating his fingers, dripping sluggishly down his hand. He blinks down at it for a moment, stunned, but his focus snaps back to Nicholas as he lets go of Malcolm's arm and moves directly in front of him, too close for it to be anything but a purposeful attempt at intimidation.

"Jessica is _thrilled_ about her first grandchild. She went on and on about it the last time I spent the night here," Nicholas's smarmy tone sets Malcolm's blood ablaze, but he's still far too off-kilter to make a move. "I suppose I could be inclined to allow her visitation, _if_ she's a very good girl."

The all-consuming hatred that Malcolm feels for the man helps clear his head, the foggy feeling from the blow fading with the adrenaline that floods his body. Just as he opens his mouth to speak, to tell the man what a despicable human being he is, he glimpses a glint of something just behind Endicott's head, a twinkling refraction of light on steel. He doesn't even realize what's happening until Nicholas's weight crashes into him, the man's shout of pain twisting and fusing with Ainsley's enraged howl, the combined screams drowning out the sound of the gun as it clatters to the floor.

Malcolm windmills his arms before desperately grasping Endicott's shoulders to keep himself from tipping backwards, grunting as his broken wrist impacts with Nicholas's body. Using the man's hunched form to regain his balance, Malcolm is finally able to see behind Nicholas to find out what the hell just happened. He's met by the sight of his sister with a white-knuckled grip around the handle of a knife that's buried to the hilt in Endicott's back, just above his right shoulder blade.

There's a madness in her eyes that steals Malcolm's breath away as she yanks back on the knife, ripping the blade from Endicott's body. The arc of the knife as she whips it back over her shoulder splatters blood droplets across her face, but Malcolm can tell she isn't even aware of the mess of gore that's coating her skin, lurid red over milky white. She's too far gone, lost in her fury, focused solely on jamming the blade back into Nicholas's back.

Endicott's scream is deafening as the knife sinks in right next to the first wound, but before Malcolm can react, Nicholas is spinning away from him, advancing on Ainsley with deadly intent.

Nicholas's right arm hangs useless at his side, but his left-hook sends Ainsley flying backwards, stumbling as she fights to stay on her feet while Nicholas crowds her back against the wall. His left hand shoots out to wrap around her throat, squeezing hard enough to lift her feet off the ground, cutting off the scream that had only just started. She lashes out, hands and feet striking wildly, but Nicholas is fueled by an adrenaline for which Ainsley is no match.

Malcolm doesn't think twice. He rushes forward and grabs hold of the carving knife that's still lodged in Endicott's back, wrenching it back and purposefully ignoring the way the muscles contract and squeeze around the blade as it's pulled from the man's body. He picks up where Ainsley left off, but draws on his detailed knowledge of human anatomy — courtesy of Dr. Martin Whitly — to ensure that he'll bring the man down as quickly as possible, specifically aiming for the heart and lungs. 

With the first plunge of the blade into his body, just to the right of his spine, Endicott collapses into Ainsley, crushing her against the wall with the weight of his body but somehow maintaining his grip around her throat. Malcolm doesn't hesitate, pulling the knife out and driving it back in on the other side of his spine, level with his lungs.

Ainsley slips from Endicott's grasp, falling to the floor, sputtering and gasping for breath. Malcolm is distantly aware that she's grasping at her neck, at the phantom hands that he's sure she can still feel around her throat, but he can't look away from Endicott as the man drops down to his knees, a horrific rattling sound issuing from his lungs with every rasping breath. 

As Endicott crumples to the ground, blood begins bubbling up and out of his mouth, spilling onto the floor as he fights to suck air into his perforated lungs. It's not until Nicholas stops struggling, his body going limp on the floor, that Malcolm lets out the breath that's been trapped in his own chest.

His entire body begins to tremble as soon as the air passes his lips, and he feels the world begin to tilt and sway around him as he stares down at the man he just killed. While there's a small voice in the back of his mind that's assuring him that he did what he did to save Ainsley from a direct threat, a much larger part is screaming that he's just like his father. A murderer.

"Oh, God," he whispers, dragging a blood-stained hand through his hair, "what did I do?"

"Malcolm," Ainsley croaks, and suddenly she's standing in front of him, coated in blood splatter and already starting to bruise where Nicholas's hand had wrapped around her throat. "Bro, you need to breathe for me."

He tries. He does. But even as he fights the panic that's threatening to consume him, a fierce pain swells through his stomach, stealing the last of his breath away. The only reason he makes it to the settee, instead of dropping to the ground next to Endicott's body, is thanks to Ainsley looping his arm around her shoulders and supporting the bulk of his weight, easing him down with a grunt of her own.

Despite having learned a variety of breathing techniques throughout his years of therapy, he winds up holding his breath until the burning ache in his belly fades. While he's not entirely sure what labour pains are supposed to feel like, he doesn't think it's supposed to hurt like that. He needs to get to the hospital.

Which reminds him, suddenly and horribly, of Nicholas's threat that Gil would be dead within the hour. While it's entirely possible that Endicott only said it to scare him, Malcolm wouldn't doubt that he'd already arranged for someone to take Gil out as soon as he was out of surgery. 

Gritting his teeth, Malcolm pushes his self-loathing to the back burner, letting it slowly simmer rather than boil over. Right now, his family needs him.

"Are you okay?" Malcolm asks Ainsley, reaching out and hovering a hand just short of the livid red marks on her neck. His gaze skips from her throat to his hand, streaked and sticky with Endicott's blood, undeniable proof that, as hard as he's tried to deny it, he is his father's son. 

He can't bring himself to touch her, to taint her with his darkness. He can't even meet her eyes. Ainsley, of course, notices his hesitation and wraps his hand in hers, holding firm as he flinches and tries to pull away.

Refusing to let go, Ainsley winces as she swallows before she speaks. "I'm okay, Mal. Are you?" She pauses, waiting for him to answer, but he can't seem to find the words to explain how _not okay_ he really is. How he'll never be okay again. When he doesn't answer and just stares off vacantly, lost in his own thoughts, she gives his hand a squeeze and whispers, "What do we do now?" 

_Now_ , he thinks to himself, _I do whatever it takes to keep my family safe. Even if it's from me_.

It's difficult to pull his hand from Ainsley's grasp — she's obviously reluctant to let him go — but he manages to free himself and get his phone out, quickly dialing JT and pressing the phone to his ear.

"No sign of Endicott yet," JT states, in lieu of a greeting, "but we're still combing through everything for evidence. Any news on Gil? How you holding up?"

"Endicott said he sent someone for Gil," Malcolm replies, choosing to disregard not only JT's questions, but the warmth in his voice, as well, knowing that it's bound to turn frigid when he finds out what Malcolm's done. What he is. "He said it would be happening within the hour."

JT curses and Malcolm can hear him talking in urgent tones to someone nearby, ordering more unis to be sent to the hospital. When he comes back on the line, he says, "I'm sending back-up now, and Dani and I will be there soon. Are you safe? When did you talk to him?"

"Endicott is dead." Malcolm wants to vomit at the relief he feels at those words. "We're at my mother's house. You need to send CSU and—" he cuts off with a scream as it feels like he's being ripped apart from the inside.

He's distantly aware of Ainsley pulling the phone from his hand, hears her shout for JT to send an ambulance, and then his world goes dark.


	3. Chapter 3

He comes to slowly, groggy and wrapped in a thick fog of confusion. He's woken too many times like this to not realize immediately, even as addled as he is, that he's in the hospital. He lets himself float in the inbetween, not quite conscious but close enough. His body is awash in a flood of chemicals that he recognizes as high-grade painkillers, but he can't quite bring himself to question why. Not yet. He knows from experience that the answer to that question has a tendency to end the comfortable nothingness he's found himself in once again.

There's a low murmur of voices somewhere nearby, blending in with the various whirs and beeps of medical machinery that's providing a comfortable background din — a sort of white noise that grounds him in reality while still allowing him to remain blissfully unaware. It's perfect, really.

Until he hears a small, mewling cry that makes his heart ache in a way that he's never felt before and didn't even know was possible. And somehow, he _knows_ that tiny little voice belongs to his daughter.

All at once, reality comes crashing back, hard and fast and so goddamn _painfully_ that he wishes he'd never woken up at all. 

The comfortable fog dissipates in an instant, and he suddenly remembers everything that happened with Endicott. Remembers what he did. It's excruciating, and he's perversely thankful when the physical pain filters in, distracting him from guilt and shame that's trying so hard to suffocate him.

There's an insistent ache in his wrist and he can feel a tug on the side of his face where it's swollen and stretching his skin — the recollection of obtaining both injuries springing to mind unbidden, leaving him queasy at the remembrance — but both of those pale in comparison to the throb that pulses through his abdomen. Even dulled as it is by the painkillers, he can feel the incision along his lower belly, but that isn't the worst of it. He's sore inside, which he could deal with, but he feels so heartbreakingly empty that he doesn't even know how to process it.

So instead, he focuses on his memories, on the hazy flashes of what happened after he killed Nicholas. He remembers paramedics; poking and prodding at his aching body, asking questions he couldn't answer, strapping an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. He has a fuzzy image of Dani's distraught face caught amongst his memories, but he's not entirely sure it's not a figment of his imagination. There are various other sparks of light and sound, and then nothing. Until he heard his daughter cry a moment ago.

It doesn't matter what happened, though, because he knows what he has to do. Whether or not he's arrested (for the murder he _didn't_ commit or the one that he _did_ ), he can't allow his family to be corrupted by the legacy of pain and devastation that pumps through his veins. They'll be far better off without him.

He chokes back a sob as he realizes that he's going to have to say goodbye to Gil and their daughter; the man that he spent his life waiting for and the daughter that he hasn't even met. 

He can hear her, though, only a few feet away, fussing just a little and still somehow managing to sound like the answer to every dream he never dared to hope for.

It takes several minutes before he's able to convince his heavy eyelids to open, and he's immediately thankful for the dim lighting in the room. It's dark outside — which makes him wonder if it's the same night that everything went sideways, or any number of days later — and the overhead lights are off. He blinks away the grogginess and turns his head to the right, just a little, where the muted source of light and the hushed conversation are coming from, the rhythm of his heart faltering at what he sees.

He and Gil are sharing a room, their beds less than six feet apart; his mother's doing, he's sure. While Malcolm is laying nearly flat in his bed, Gil's is raised up so he's halfway between sitting and lying down. Malcolm can only see his husband in profile, but even still he can make out just how ashen he is as he leans back against the bed, nasal cannula wrapped under his nose and around his ears. 

It hurts to see him like that, but it absolutely shatters his heart as he watches Gil reach out weakly to take hold of their daughter's tiny hand from where she's cradled in Jessica's arms. 

His mother is perched on the side of Gil's bed, dressed down in a casual pair of black slacks and a burgundy blouse, with a bundle of blankets wrapped protectively in her arms. From where he's laying, all Malcolm can see of his daughter is the chubby arm that's peeking out of the blankets, extended out to where her little fist is curled around the tip of Gil's finger. The love — the absolute _adoration_ — that's radiating from the two of them is a nearly tangible presence in the room.

There's no holding back the sob that breaks free, not this time. Gil and Jessica's heads both whip around to Malcolm at the sound, but he's not ready to face them yet. Not ready to say goodbye.

Malcolm hides his eyes behind his hand, letting the tears stream down the sides of his face to wet his hair and soak into the pillow below. He doesn't know how to do this when he's already feeling so empty and alone to start with.

He hears the creak of Gil's bed as Jessica rises to her feet, hears the click of her heels as she rushes over to his bed.

"Malcolm? Are you alright?" she asks, worry ringing clear in her voice. "Are you in pain?"

And what is he supposed to say to that? His heart is splintering into a hundred thousand pieces and he has no idea how he's supposed to survive it. All he can do is let the sobs rack his body and focus on the way the movement makes the ache in his abdomen grow.

"Bright? Baby, what's wrong?" It's Gil's deep voice this time, still warm despite being uncharacteristically weak and unbearably concerned. "Bright, please. Talk to us."

It takes a few minutes to calm himself enough that he can even consider speaking, and the entire time, he keeps his hand pressed over his eyes, grounding himself in the sting from the light brush of his hand over the edge of the cut on his cheekbone. He feels the mattress sink beside him as Jessica lowers herself to his bed, a mirror of how she was perched on Gil's, and he reluctantly lets the tender brush of her fingers through his hair settle him, taking comfort that he knows he doesn't deserve one last time. Once his breathing has slowed to occasional hitches, he breathes out, "I'm sorry."

The rhythm of Jessica's fingers over his scalp falters at the words before she says, "You have nothing to be sorry for." She wraps her fingers around his wrist and gently tugs his hand away from his face, but still he refuses to open his eyes. "Sweetheart," Jessica says quietly, "would you like to meet your daughter?"

_More than anything in the world_ , he thinks to himself. But it will make it that much harder to say goodbye if he lays eyes on her, if he sees exactly how perfect she is, if he glimpses facets of Gil in her tiny features. He shakes his head and whispers a heartbroken, "I can't."

He hears Gil's sharp intake of breath, even over Jessica's gasp, and he knows he'll have to explain, to tell them why they'll all be better off without him in their lives. And so he takes a fortifying breath and, with eyes still closed, he tells them everything.

They both protest as he compares himself to Martin, but he presses on around their objections, needing to get it out as quickly as possible. Jessica's grip tightens around his hand as he talks about getting arrested, and Gil practically growls when Malcolm insists that they'll be safer without him around.

"Malcolm, baby, can you look at me? Please." The desperation in Gil's voice is enough to make Malcolm finally open his eyes and look over to his husband. He's met with watery eyes as Gil insists, "You are _nothing_ like your father, Malcolm. It's gonna take some time to clear everything up, but they're already calling Endicott's death a justifiable homicide. You're not going to jail, and I'm not letting you walk away from our family."

As he speaks, Gil attempts to push himself up, and Malcolm can see the pain hit him like a tidal wave, draining what little colour he had from his face, but Gil just grits his teeth and continues to lever himself up.

"Gil, stop," Malcolm begs as Gil tries to swing his legs over the edge of the bed, clearly intent on getting up. "Gil, please. You're going to hurt yourself."

"Gil Arroyo, you lie back down, right this instant," Jessica orders, marching over to the man and laying a firm hand on his chest, gently urging him back to the mattress. At Gil's look of betrayal, Jessica quietly adds, "You're no good to him passed out on the floor."

Malcolm can see the exact moment that Gil surrenders, falling back against the bed with a grunt, sucking in deep and measured breaths to ride out the pain of his failed attempt to get up. He hates that he's caused Gil more pain, but it's just additional proof that he's doing the right thing by leaving.

"I'll be back in a moment," Jessica states, then looks at Gil intently as she adds, "I expect you to stay in this bed while I'm gone." Then she turns her stern gaze on Malcolm and says, "And you. Listen to your husband."

She turns on her heel and marches out of the room, carrying a large portion of Malcolm's heart in the soft bundle that's resting in her arms.

"Bright," Gil starts immediately, shifting in his bed to face Malcolm more directly, but still heeding Jessica's warning to stay put. "Ainsley's already given her statement, we know what happened with Endicott." Gil raises a placating hand at Malcolm's wide eyes, adding, "She's fine. She has a bruised larynx and won't be speaking for a few days. Honestly, she seems more concerned about how the bruising will show on camera." 

Gil's lips twitch up at the corners and Malcolm can only imagine how _that_ conversation went. The news that she's mostly unharmed, though, helps to loosen the knot that's been twisting in his stomach since he woke up.

"You saved her life, you know," Gil says at Malcolm's continued silence. "Her throat was already swelling closed by the time the paramedics got there. If you hadn't acted when you did, she wouldn't have made it."

Malcolm hadn't realized how close he'd come to losing his sister, and, as much as the thought pains him, it helps to ease some of the guilt. If it came down to Endicott or Ainsley, he'd choose his sister every time. He just hates that he let it get that far in the first place.

"You saved our daughter, too," Gil says thickly, overcome with emotion that he's clearly having a hard time reining in. "The doctors said you had a placental abruption caused by the sudden onset of preeclampsia. It was—" Gil swallows hard as he tries to get a grip on himself. "It was touch and go for both of you for a little while." Gil pauses for a few deep breaths, bringing his hands up to wipe the tears from his cheeks. 

Malcolm's left reeling. If Gil's to be believed — and the genuine grief on his face at the thought of losing Malcolm and the baby attests to the truth of his assertions — then Malcolm's actions kept their baby alive. Endicott never would have called an ambulance for Malcolm. It would have meant nothing to the man to stand back and watch both Malcolm and the baby die.

Before he can even begin to process how he feels about that, JT walks into the room, heading directly for Malcolm's bed like a man on a mission. For a split second that makes his heart stutter in his chest, Malcolm worries that the detective has come to arrest him. Again. Thankfully, he's quickly proven wrong.

"Pretend I'm not even here," JT mumbles as he walks around the bed and releases the breaks. "But, dude. Your mom is a force. It's kind of impossible to say no to her, huh?" Malcolm can't help the small laugh — a huff of breath, really — at the statement.

It's only a matter of seconds before Malcolm's bed, along with all of the machines he's hooked up to, are moved directly next to Gil's, their single beds suddenly looking a lot like a double. Satisfied with his work, JT locks the breaks once again. 

"It's good to see you awake, man," JT says, clasping a warm hand on Malcolm's shoulder, hesitating just a moment before he adds, "You did good." He nods to Gil and turns to leave, stopping at the door to address them both. "You got yourselves a beautiful baby. We sure she's yours?" he smirks before he walks out the door.

Alone once again, and with nowhere to hide, Malcolm begins to wonder what happens next. Despite Gil's assurances that Endicott's death was justifiable — and Lord knows it's going to take an awful lot of time and therapy to _truly_ convince him of that — Malcolm's worried there's no way Gil will ever look at him the same way again. 

From the moment that Endicott took his final rattling breath, Malcolm has been labouring under the assumption that he would be leaving Gil and their daughter, one way or another. Now, it's beginning to occur to him that, maybe, he doesn't need to. But that doesn't mean that things will stay the same. Although it would break his heart, he would completely understand if Gil couldn't love him anymore.

As Gil slowly lowers the head of his bed, his hand resting protectively over the stab wound as his abdomen stretches out, Malcolm chews on his lip as he considers the possibility. Thankfully, he doesn't have long to dwell on it before Gil is lying level with him. Malcolm takes a deep breath, feeling nothing but trepidation and anxiety as they turn to face one another, but when his eyes meet Gil's, all he sees is love.

With a small but genuine smile, Gil reaches over and lays a hand on Malcolm's arm, just above the cast that's encasing his broken wrist. The touch is warm and gentle, and so familiar that he could cry.

Deciding the direct approach is likely best, Malcolm opts to rip off the bandaid. "After what I did, can you still love me?"

"Kid, I love you so damn much," Gil says without missing a beat. "I'm sorry you had to do what you did, but I'm so damn proud of you for protecting our family." 

There's no deceit in Gil's microexpressions, no disgust in his body language, and Malcolm feels the tension inside of him begin to uncoil, letting him take his first deep breath since he got the news that Gil had been stabbed. A few tears escape as relief pours through his body and sinks into his bones, and Gil brings his hand up to gently swipe them away.

With Endicott's murder no longer looming quite so heavily over every thought, Malcolm is free to focus on what should have been consuming his thoughts all along.

"Are you alright? Is she?" Malcolm asks, feeling like a terrible husband and father for not asking immediately. 

"We're both fine, baby, I promise." Gil says quietly, trailing his hand up to Malcolm's hair and carding his fingers through the unruly mess. "She is absolutely perfect and more than I ever could have asked for. You're gonna fall in love as soon as you see her." There's a soft smile on Gil's face as he speaks that Malcolm's never seen on him before, a smile that he hopes will grace his husband's features for the rest of their lives.

"I think I already have," Malcolm says honestly, realizing that he'd fallen head over heels as soon as he heard that first cry. "And you? How are you, really?" Malcolm reaches with his good hand across his body to take hold of Gil's, giving it a squeeze as he brings their joined hands to rest on his chest, idly thumbing Gil's wedding band.

"It's gonna be a slow recovery," Gil says honestly, "but the doc says I'll be as good as new in a few months. Don't worry, kid, I'm not going anywhere."

Malcolm raises Gil's hand to his lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles, just as Jessica throws the door open and bustles into the room, tiny pink bundle still encased in her arms like she was made for it.

"Much better," she says simply, eyes darting over their combined beds and fused hands. "Now, are you ready to meet my beautiful granddaughter?" The way Jessica looks down at the baby in her arms with such joy sparks a smile on Malcolm's face, knowing his daughter is going to grow up with a band of people that are going to love her so damn much.

"I really am," he whispers.

Jessica hums her approval and walks over to the wardrobe at the side of the room, opening it to grab an extra pillow before she heads to the men that are anxiously awaiting their daughter. She tosses the pillow on the bed between them, covering the seam where their mattresses meet, then leans over Malcolm to very, very carefully place the little girl between her two fathers. Jessica only stops long enough to place a lingering kiss to Malcolm's forehead, and then to wipe away the lipstick mark with her thumb, before she leaves the little family alone, with a quiet, "Call if you need anything."

Heart racing in his chest, Malcolm looks down for the first time at his baby girl. 

She's perfect.

He blinks away the tears blurring his vision as he takes in her bright blue eyes, wide and staring. He knows she can't actually see him, not as much more than a blurry presence, but he would swear she's staring right at him like she knows who he is.

When she lets out a small cry, he brings a finger to her cheek and brushes it over her soft skin, far closer to the deep, beautiful shade of his husband's than his own, and she quiets immediately. After a moment, he drops his hand on top of the swaddled bundle of her body, huffing out a startled breath as he realizes she's really not much bigger than his hand. She's so tiny, and so singularly beautiful, that he can't wrap his mind around the fact that she's _theirs_. That he carried her around in his belly for the last nine months, and suddenly, here she is, laying beside him, their family finally complete.

He looks up to Gil to share his surprise, only to find his husband teary eyed and smiling as he watches Malcolm with so much tenderness that it makes him dizzy.

With a grunt as the movement pulls on his stitches and shifts something uncomfortably inside of him, he pushes himself up enough to lean over his daughter and meet Gil's lips with his own, a gentle press that conveys just how much he loves him.

He drops a kiss to his daughter's head, breathing in her intoxicating scent, before he falls back against the bed, utterly exhausted, in no little amount of pain, and happier than he's ever been in his entire life.

They have a long road ahead of them: recovering from various traumas, both mental and physical; enduring the murder investigations that are bound to dig painfully into their lives; and for Malcolm, processing Eve's death and the fact that the Girl in the Box is alive and well in Sophie Sanders.

But laying here, like this, with his husband and daughter at his side, Malcolm knows that they'll get through it all, and everything else that comes their way.

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone who likes to write and likes mpreg should consider joining the summer mpreg swap! It's specifically for Prodigal Son, and all of the works will be mpreg related. For more details and the sign-up page, please check out the ao3 collection: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PSGobSwapJul20/profile
> 
> Sign-ups end on July 1st, so check it out soon!


End file.
